


Breathe Me

by Only_angel_28



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bath Sex, Bathing/Washing, Chance Meetings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Falling In Love, Family Member Death, Fate, Fluff, God these tags are just a ray of sunshine aren't they?, Happy Ending, Homeless Louis, Homelessness, I promise it's not as dark as some of the tags make it sound, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Music Student Harry Styles, POV Harry, Past Abuse, Song Lyrics, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 09:16:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14281746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_angel_28/pseuds/Only_angel_28
Summary: The story of what happens when Harry finds a stranger sleeping inside the car his late grandfather left him.“Louis?” Harry queries softly, his voice nothing more than a whisper. “Why are you living in my car?”Louis sighs, and this time it’s laced with a mixture of sadness and exhaustion, the sound of it tugging at Harry’s heartstrings. “Long story,” he says finally with a weak smile.“Will you tell me?” Harry prods gently, his demeanor akin to that of someone approaching a wild animal with their arms outstretched in a gesture of submission. “You don’t have to, like—I mean…it’s just, I’m a pretty good listener, and you seem like maybe you could use a friend?”“What gave me away?” Louis jokes dryly.*Or the one where Harry has a broken heart, Louis has a broken home, and all it takes is one night together for them to fall in love.





	Breathe Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DonnaHaywardsHead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnaHaywardsHead/gifts).



> This story is a gift for the lovely DonnaHaywardsHead. She is responsible for writing my favorite fic of all time, _Flightless Bird_ , and her brilliance continues to inspire me to be a better writer. Do yourself a favor and check out her stories if you haven't already read them. You won't be disappointed! This one’s for you, friend. I know we've joked about being each other's literary matches, so I really hope that means you will enjoy this! Xx
> 
> I put together this playlist after I had already finished writing, and I couldn’t believe how many songs I found that fit so well with how I pictured the story in my head. I don’t actually listen to music while I write because it tends to throw off my focus, but I listened to these songs as I edited this piece, and it really amplified the effect for me and enhanced the emotions I tried to evoke, so I thought I’d list them here for anyone interested in having a similar experience.
> 
> Mood Music:  
> Arrival of the Birds-The Cinematic Orchestra  
> Afire Love-Ed Sheeran  
> Neptune-Sleeping At Last  
> The City-Ed Sheeran  
> Falling For You-The 1975  
> Bloodstream-Stateless  
> Kiss Me-Ed Sheeran  
> Let Go-Frou Frou  
> Hold Back the River-James Bay  
> Nude-Radiohead  
> Goner-Twenty-one Pilots  
> Breathe Me-Sia  
> Love-Lana Del Rey  
> Robbers-The 1975  
> Everything-Lifehouse  
> Hallelujah-Leonard Cohen  
> Once in a Lifetime-One Direction  
> Lay Me Down-Sam Smith  
> In My Veins-Andrew Belle  
> Infinity-One Direction  
> I Found- Amber Run  
> The Night We Met-Lord Huron  
> Remedy-Adele  
> Medicine-The 1975  
> Hazy-Rosi Golan (this beautiful song is the one mentioned at the end of the story)

It’s raining. Of course it is. Harry’s life is one big, giant cliché. He shivers as he takes in the bleak London cityscape around him, making his way to the car park across from his grandparents’ flat. _No, now it’s just his Nan’s,_ he reminds himself bitterly as rivulets stream down his face – they could be raindrops or they could be tears, at this point Harry really has no way of differentiating between the two, and it doesn’t really matter because he feels like he’s drowning either way. 

The late afternoon sky seems to be a direct reflection of the state of Harry’s heart – completely washed out and pale, leached of all colour and vibrancy and left a dull, lifeless grey. He can barely see through the downpour and the blinding film of tears that stings his eyes and makes his nose twitch, but somehow his feet manage to carry his leaden body over to the muted mustard-yellow 1984 Vauxhall Astra – a sarcophagus of memories and childhood nostalgia that’s stood sentry in its parking space, ready to welcome him like an old friend. Besides the ancient Bremont watch that’s strapped to his wrist by its worn leather band, it’s the only tangible piece of Harry’s grandfather – the man who was like a father to him after his own walked out, raising him alongside his mum and his Nan – that he has left. 

He digs in the left front pocket of his jeans, trying to extract the key with some difficulty. His jeans are tight on the best day, but adhered as they are to his thighs thanks to the relentless downpour, they have become like a second skin. He ultimately wins his battle with the sodden denim and inserts the key into the lock, hands trembling from both the biting cold and the perpetual chill that has settled in the centre of his chest. He has to work at it to get the ancient cogs of the locking mechanism to line up _just so_ with the worn down groves of the key and allow him entrance. When he finally manages to jiggle it free, he opens the door and slides into the driver’s seat, leaning forward to rest his head on the steering wheel. His soaking wet hair forms a dripping curtain around him, his breath puffing little white clouds into the frigid air inside the car. 

There’s a rustling from the backseat and Harry startles, snapping his head up immediately. His eyes dart to the rearview mirror only to be met by the reflection of a boy with the most absurdly blue eyes Harry has ever seen. They’re blown wide in surprise, peeking out from beneath a veritable bird’s nest of messy fringe and causing their owner to look a little feral. Harry would be frightened if it weren’t for the sleep-softened quality that exists around the edges of them. He may not be afraid exactly, but he still can’t help the startled little yelp that slips past his lips at the discovery that he is not alone, that there is a beautiful stranger (who may or may not be a murderer) looking expectantly at him from the backseat of his grandfather’s – _now his_ – car. 

“Sorry,” Harry rushes out upon studying the wild look in the boy’s eyes. “Sorry, I—” 

“You’re apologising to _me_?” Blue Eyes asks with obvious incredulity. “Isn’t this your car?” 

“Umm, well, yes?” Harry stammers, unable to tear his gaze away from the hypnotising cerulean of those eyes. 

“You don’t sound so certain, mate,” Blue Eyes informs him with a sly little smirk tugging at the corners of his chapped, baby-pink lips. 

“Well, you see, it used to be my grandfather’s car, but he recently passed away and he left it to me. So I’m sort of still getting used to the fact that it’s mine now I suppose.” 

“Oh. _Shit_ , I’m sorry. I remember when I lost me own granddad. Don’t think I got out of bed for a week,” Blue Eyes tells him, and _God, what a voice he has_. 

It’s the kind of voice that should be accompanied by the clink of ice cubes swirling around in a glass, by crisp night air and curling tendrils of cigarette smoke. It belongs with creaking floorboards, too-loud laughter, and fingers pressed against lips. With sleepy smiles and heavy lids and warm sheets and words so soft they have to be whispered. With Sunday mornings, and sweet nothings, and giggles tucked into bare skin. It’s high and raspy, thick Northern accent still rough with sleep, and Harry thinks inanely that he could probably listen to it for a small infinity. 

The boy gives him a sympathetic smile, suddenly looking a bit timid. “So, you’re probably wondering what the hell I’m doing here, yeah?” 

Harry shrugs, the ghost of a smile pulling at his own lips. “Eh, I’m not too bothered. Figure you probably have a good reason.” 

That draws a genuine laugh from the boy, and Harry feels inexplicably proud for having been the cause of it. “This kind of thing happen to you often, Curly,” he teases, “or are you just some do-gooder/Mother Teresa type who is even nice to the stranger who broke in to your car and has been living in your backseat?” 

“You’ve been _living_ in here?” Harry sputters incredulously, his eyes going wide at the unsavory revelation – how terribly sad. 

“Yeah,” Sighs Blue Eyes, and Harry really should ask his name, properly introduce himself and all that. “Though I guess I didn’t _technically_ break in, considering there’s a spare key taped inside the wheel well. Did you know that?” 

Harry shrugs again. “My grandfather was a very trusting man.” 

“Great, now I _really_ feel like an arsehole,” Blue Eyes mutters darkly. 

“No, it’s okay, like—” Harry shakes his head, trying to arrange his jumbled thoughts. “Don’t worry about it.” 

“You are entirely too nice, you know that? I could be a psycho or a serial killer or summat.” 

“Well, _are_ you?” 

“ _No_. But the point is, I _could_ be.” 

Harry chuckles despite the absurdity of the situation, and finds himself teasing the boy in return. “Not a very good one, obviously. We’ve been speaking for several minutes now and you’ve yet to try and kill me.” 

Blue Eyes tilts his head back and laughs, exposing the elegant column of his throat as his Adam’s apple bobs with the sound spilling from his lips. “You are something else, Curly.” 

“Harry,” Harry corrects. “My name is Harry.” 

“ _Harry_ ,” Blue Eyes says lowly, rolling the name around on his tongue as if he is trying to decide whether he likes the taste of it. “Harry,” he repeats contemplatively. “Hmm…Saint Harold. It suits you.” 

Harry barks out a laugh, inexplicably endeared by this nameless stranger with the clever tongue and soul-piercing eyes. “Aren’t you going to tell me yours?” 

Those eyes find Harry’s once more in the rear view mirror, a flicker of mischief lighting them from within as he opens his mouth to reply. “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” he deadpans. 

“I thought we were past all that?” Harry ribs playfully, reveling in the warmth that floods his body at the delighted laugh his quip earns him. 

The boy’s laughter fades as he attempts to appear put-upon, letting out a sigh of a long-suffering nature. “I s’pose it’s only fair. I am in your car after all, and for some reason you still haven’t yelled at me or kicked me out.” 

Harry nods encouragingly to show his agreement with that statement. 

“I’m Louis,” says the beautiful boy with an impish grin. 

“ _Louis_ ,” Harry drawls, a mischievous smirk of his own creeping onto his face. “Saint Louis…hmm, I’m afraid that’s already taken.” 

“Harold, you cheeky little shit,” Louis beams. “It’s Lou- _ee_. Just Louis. And I’m afraid I’m not much of a saint.” 

“Well, _just Louis_ , I would tell you that I’m _just Harry_ , not Harold, but you don’t seem the type to be bothered with convention, so I won’t bother trying to correct you. I know a lost cause when I see one.” 

“Right you are, Harold. Clever boy, you. Quick study. Also, there’s an obvious _Harry Potter_ joke in there that I can tell you’re just dying to make, but it’s rather lame and a bit unoriginal, so I wouldn’t if I were you,” Louis informs him with a teasing glint in his eyes. _God, they’re pretty_. Louis, in general, is pretty – maddeningly so. 

“Heeey,” Harry drawls out on a whine. He chuckles amusedly at Louis’ humour, and preens a little at the compliment about his cleverness even if it was made in jest. “I happen to love lame jokes.” 

“Why am I not surprised?” Louis retorts with a roll of those eyes of his. There’s a fondness in the action that would suggest they’ve known one another for much longer than mere minutes. It speaks of comfort, of familiarity, _intimacy_ even, and Harry gets swept up in the tide of it. 

A few moments pass by with the only sound in the car being the rhythmic drone of the rain against the metal roof. 

“Louis?” Harry queries softly, his voice nothing more than a whisper. “Why are you living in my car?” 

Louis sighs, and this time it’s laced with a mixture of sadness and exhaustion, the sound of it tugging at Harry’s heartstrings. “Long story,” he says finally with a weak smile. 

“Will you tell me?” Harry prods gently, his demeanor akin to that of someone approaching a wild animal with their arms outstretched in a gesture of submission. “You don’t have to, like—I mean…it’s just, I’m a pretty good listener, and you seem like maybe you could use a friend?” 

“What gave me away?” Louis jokes dryly. 

Harry smiles even though his initial reaction is to frown at the way Louis’ words hadn’t managed to completely conceal how small and defeated he sounds. His eyes roam over Louis’ face, cataloging the dark purplish shadows etched into the delicate skin beneath his eyes, the unruly scruff dusting his sharp jaw line, and the hollow quality of his cheeks. “C’mon,” he says. “It’s been a shit week, and I could really do with a distraction from my own misery. What do you say we go get something to eat?” 

Louis looks skeptical, but not in a distrusting way. More like he isn’t sure he wants to inconvenience Harry further. And how, exactly, can Harry explain that finding him in the back of his car has been the highlight of an otherwise very depressing span of days? _He can’t_ , because he doesn’t even know Louis, and yet he feels this ache in the centre of his chest when he looks into his eyes, and a lightness in his limbs when the other boy laughs. It’s madness, he knows, but Harry can’t question the feeling any more than he can hope to put a name to it. 

“Please?” Harry petitions. “I could use a friend too.” 

Louis smiles knowingly, looking hopeful that he has stumbled upon a kindred spirit. “Alright,” he agrees. 

“Come up front?” Harry suggests with a hopeful raise of his brows, the words barely masking his plea for companionship, for a respite from his loneliness. 

“Yeah?” Louis breathes, still sounding a touch uncertain. 

Harry just nods, putting the key into the ignition and praying that the heat still works. He makes eye contact with Louis in the rear view mirror, and the pleading look in his eyes seems to be all the other boy needs to shuffle forward and climb over the centre console and into the passenger seat. He turns his body to the side, orienting himself towards Harry as he reaches over to squeeze just above his knee. 

“I…” he trails off, looking down into his lap, “just—thank you.” 

Harry places his hand over Louis’ smaller one, both of them freezing cold, but somehow Harry feels nothing but warmth in his veins radiating out from the point of contact. “You’re welcome.” 

* 

Harry drives them to a lovely little curry place he knows. It's just around the corner from his Kensington flat and he's been known to frequent it on the odd Friday night after a few too many pints at the pub with his best mate who's a little too Irish for his own good. 

He gets the vindaloo and Louis gets the madras ( _I like it spicy, Harold_ ). Louis objects fervently when Harry insists on paying, but Harry merely waves away his protests like he would a buzzing insect.

"It's fine, Lou. Really,” he assures him, the nickname slipping out like an old habit, that single syllable already feeling right at home on Harry’s tongue. “Please just let me do this for you, yeah?"

Louis eventually gives in with an embarrassed flush after he peers into his wallet –trying to be inconspicuous about it – and then pours all that fervor from earlier into thanking Harry profusely, insisting that he will find a way to sufficiently pay him back. His words fall on deaf ears for all Harry listens to them.

"You don't owe me anything. I'm happy to do it."

Louis bites at his lower lip, tilting his head to the side with an expression of genuine curiosity. "Why are you being so lovely to me?" 

"It costs nothing to be kind," Harry says simply.

"Actually, Harold, it costs about seven pounds fifty according to the till." 

Harry shakes his head amusedly, giving Louis’ hip a playful nudge with his own. "You know what I mean."

He politely asks the freckle-faced teenage girl working the counter if they can have their food wrapped up, and they head back to Harry’s flat to eat there instead.

The rain has turned to snow by the time they’ve made it to the car park, so they pick their way carefully across the icy pavement and up the steps into Harry’s building. Like a reflex, Harry’s hand hovers protectively over the small of Louis’ back – not touching him, but wordlessly promising to be there to catch him if his steps should falter. Harry tries not to read too much into the ease with which his body performs such a gesture, how much it feels like muscle memory, like something he’s done a thousand times before, when, in reality, he didn’t even know Louis’ name when he had woken up that morning. He’s always had a natural inclination to protect the people he cares about, though, and it’s a bit astonishing how quickly Louis is becoming one of those people. Now that he knows his name he never wants to forget it. He’s barely even touched Louis, and already he’s reluctant to let him go.

They shoulder their way into Harry’s flat, their hands full of takeaway bags and their cheeks rosy from the cold. Harry shifts his weight from foot to foot, holding his keys between his teeth as he toes off his boots and shrugs out of his coat. Louis smoothly removes his own jacket and bends down to step out of his shoes and place them next to Harry’s, all the while laughing at Harry’s little dance. The sound of it is so crisp and vivacious that Harry forgets all about the cold that has numbed his fingers and chapped his lips.

“We can eat in here if you like,” He offers, nodding towards the lounge as he takes Louis’ jacket and hangs it up on the peg next to his own. “I always find the sofa to be more comfortable. Plus, this weather just makes me want to curl up, y’know?”

The look Louis graces him with is so soft, and exudes that same fondness from earlier, like it endears him to hear about Harry’s quirks and habits. “That sounds good, yeah,” he agrees with a smile. His eyes widen a bit as he looks around Harry’s flat. “This is a nice place you’ve got here.”

Harry feels a rush of warm blood filling his cheeks, and they tingle a little like he’s just swallowed something exceedingly sweet. His eyes shift around a bit nervously as he takes in his admittedly lavish accommodations and tries to see them through Louis’ perspective. He blushes all over again when he realises how extravagant it all must seem compared to living on the streets and sleeping in the backseat of a car.

“Thanks, it’s erm—” he cuts himself off and tugs his lower lip between his teeth, rubbing self-consciously at the nape of his neck like the nervous habit that it is. He knows that Louis isn’t judging him, but he still feels the strange urge to justify himself. “I know it’s a little much, but, erm, my dad left when I was really young, so my mum remarried a couple years ago, and her husband is pretty well off. He works in real estate and property management, so he actually owns the building. I would never be able to afford something like this otherwise, but my mum sort of insisted. She’s a bit paranoid about me living in London by myself, and she wanted to make sure I lived in a safe neighbourhood in a building with, like, proper security and all that,” he explains lamely, circling his wrist in a loose, clumsy gesture as if to encompass his surroundings.

He anxiously looks at Louis from beneath his lashes when he finishes his little spiel, but if Louis is at all put off by the opulence of Harry’s posh flat or his hastily stammered explanation his face shows no evidence of it.

“That’s—” he starts, his eyes cast down as he shakes his head like he’s trying to dislodge a particular thought from his brain. He lifts his chin and Harry is instantly hypnotised by the clarity of his eyes and the gentle curve of his lips as his facial muscles easily arrange themselves into a benevolent grin. “That’s really sweet actually. It’s lovely that she cares so much about your safety.”

Harry sighs in relief and feels a matching grin timidly paint itself across his face.

Together, they trudge into the lounge and dump their bounty on the sofa table. Harry reaches for the remote and turns on the telly, dropping it onto one of the sofa cushions. “Make yourself at home,” he insists as he thumbs over his shoulder in the direction of the kitchen, slowly backing out of the room. “Would you like something to drink? I’ve got soda, or if you fancy a beer I think I have Carling and some Guinness that my best mate left behind last time he came round. I could also make tea.”

“Whatever you’re having is good with me,” Louis answers politely.

His shoulders slump a little in a way that tells Harry he’s still worried about overstaying his welcome or taking advantage of Harry’s generosity. Harry’s fingers twitch at his sides as he fights the urge to cross the room and smooth out the tiny crease between Louis’ brows. Instead, he forces himself to turn away and goes to grab them two cans of coke from the fridge.

When he steps back into the living area with their drinks in hand, Louis is standing quietly in the middle of the room. His head swivels around, his eyes bright and curious as he takes in the interior of Harry’s flat. Harry leans his shoulder against the doorframe to watch him for a moment. It feels remarkably like Louis is looking into his soul and sifting through the contents there as he studies the framed black and white photographs on the walls and walks over to inspect the objects and knick knacks that line the shelves of Harry’s antique bookcase, but it’s not an unpleasant feeling. His eyes flit over the small collection of succulents and decorative figurines that are displayed there before moving on to the main event. He trails his fingers almost reverently over the spines of Harry’s books, like he’s trying to absorb all the knowledge and wisdom contained between their bindings. Harry watches the corners of his lips quirk into a grin when he notices the framed quote Harry has propped on one of the shelves that reads, “ _Treat People With Kindness._ ”

“A bit of a personal motto of yours?” He inquires cheekily, apparently having been aware of Harry watching him the entire time.

Harry clears his throat lightly, his cheeks colouring from having been caught staring, and shoves off the doorframe to enter the room properly. His blush may very well become a permanent fixture at this rate. “You could say that,” he allows with a self-deprecating shrug.

Louis’ smile is still in place when he turns around to face Harry fully, and it broadens beatifically when he reaches out to accept the soda Harry offers him. “Thank you,” he murmurs sincerely, popping the top of the can and taking a sip. A small sigh escapes his lips after he swallows, and he uses his can to gesture towards the bookcase. “You have a lot of books.”

“The more that you read, the more things you will know. The more that you learn, the more places you’ll go,” Harry sing-songs with a crooked smirk as he takes a swig of his own soda.

Louis narrows his eyes at him, his brows furrowing in a way that suggests he’s trying to work something out in his head. “Did you just quote Dr. Seuss to me?” He asks after a moment of reflection, squinting his eyes further and pointing his coke can at Harry in accusation. He bursts out laughing at the incredulous look Harry shoots him in response, offering a one-shouldered shrug and a simple, “I’ve got younger siblings,” as explanation.

The sound of his laugh is melodic and infectious, and Harry finds himself joining in, if only to prolong the time he gets to listen to it.

“This isn’t even all of them,” he admits like he’s divulging some tawdry secret once the last dregs of laughter have finally died out, knocking his fist on the side of the bookcase. “I’ve got crates full of ‘em under my bed and in the linen cupboard.”

Louis’ eyes sparkle with mirth as he leans in closer to Harry, knocking their shoulders together. “How very scandalous of you,” he teases.

“Indeed,” Harry chuckles. “Do you like to read?”

Louis makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat, pursing his lips as his head bobs infinitesimally. “Very much,” he affirms with a more demonstrative nod, tilting his can back to take another drink of his soda. “When I’m able to, that is.”

There’s a sadness in his voice – a rueful sort of melancholy that comes with that statement and has Harry biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from voicing the questions that rise to his lips and try to force their way into existence. The air feels heavy with all the words Louis isn’t saying, and all the questions Harry isn’t asking.

“We should probably eat before our food gets cold,” Harry suggests before the feeling can take root and sully the mood.

“Right,” Louis agrees. “Nothing worse than lukewarm curry.”

Harry laughs amiably, thankful for shift in tone, and leads the way over to the sofa where they both plop down and begin rifling through the bags of takeaway to divvy up the food. They tuck in to their respective meals in companionable silence with the low drone of the telly providing a comforting soundtrack in the background as an episode from an old series of _Top Gear_ plays. Harry tries to focus on eating, but he finds himself watching Louis out of the corner of his eye, trying to be inconspicuous about it, but completely helpless to stop.

Louis’ eyes flit over to him, and for a moment Harry worries he’s been caught staring _again_ , but then he nudges Harry’s rucksack with his toe where it’s laying on the floor next to the sofa table and tilts his head towards the desk in the corner where some of Harry’s coursework is spread across the surface along with a half empty mug of tea that he forgot about until just now. “What are you studying?” He asks curiously, using some naan to scoop up the last of his curry.

 _The swirling galaxies within your eyes, the rosebud of your lips, the ebb and flow of the tide that is your breath leaving your lungs_ , is what Harry thinks. “Music,” is what he says. “What about you? Do you go to uni?”

Louis chews thoughtfully, seeming to mull over how he wants to respond to Harry’s question. “I don’t,” he answers finally, and at first Harry thinks that’s all he’s going to get. He tries to hide his disappointment, knowing that he isn’t owed the details of Louis’ life – as much as he would like them – but then Louis brushes his fringe out of his eyes with careful fingers and a dainty flick of his wrist and turns to level Harry with the full intensity of his crystal cerulean gaze. “Not sure I’m cut out for it if ‘m honest.”

Harry offers him a polite nod and an encouraging smile. It’s an iceberg of a statement, a mere glimpse of the larger truth that lurks beneath the surface, but Harry senses Louis’ insecurity and doesn’t pry for more, not wanting to prod at what is clearly a bruise. Louis looks at him like he’s grateful. There’s a hint of surprise laced with the gratitude as if he had expected Harry to pick him apart rather than respect his boundaries. Maybe that’s something he’s used to. The thought leaves a bitter taste in Harry’s mouth.

The dulcet tone of Louis’ soft, raspy voice chases away any lingering sense of acerbity when he asks, “how long have you lived in London?”

“Mm, sometimes it feels like I’ve been here all my life because my grandparents live here and I spent so much time at theirs growing up. But it’s been about three years now that I’ve lived here proper. I took a gap year after I finished college because I wanted to do a bit of traveling, and then I moved here when I was nineteen to start university.” He sobers a little at the mention of his grandparents, the ache he feels from the loss of his grandfather still painfully fresh.

Louis notices and shifts his weight around on the sofa so he’s facing him. Harry pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, pushing the pads of them into the corners of his eyes as if to try and block his tear ducts and staunch the flow of his impending tears. Louis quietly reaches for his other hand and squeezes it gingerly. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to offer Harry clichéd platitudes, and for that Harry is grateful. Nothing Louis could say would make him feel any better, no matter how heartfelt the intention behind the sentiment. It’s just nice not to feel so alone, and it’s nicer still that Louis seems to instinctively know that this is what Harry needs. After a few moments, Harry offers him a watery smile and a tiny nod. Louis seems to understand that too, and picks up the thread of their previous conversation without missing a beat.

“Where did you travel?” he asks interestedly.

“Eastern Europe and Russia mostly.”

“Did you go alone?”

“Just me and Olivia.”

Louis arches a brow in question.

“Olivia’s my camera,” Harry explains with a small chuckle, inclining his head towards the padded leather camera bag hanging from one of the pegs next to the door alongside their coats.

“Oh,” Louis laughs shakily. There’s a slight tremor in his voice and a thread of relief woven into his tone – like maybe he had assumed Harry was referring to a lover and is pleased to have been proven wrong – and it’s causing Harry’s heart to swell with a reckless kind of hope. “Tell me about it?” He requests. “Your travels, I mean. I’ve never really been anywhere m’self, and I’d love to hear.”

So Harry does. He tells him about visiting the Schönbrunn Palace in Vienna and how he had been so overcome with emotion that he actually teared up whilst listening to the Palace Orchestra play _Die Zauberflöte_ in the very room where Mozart performed his first ever concert at the tender age of six. He tells him about the breathtaking gothic architecture in Prague – the reason it’s known as the city of a hundred spires – and the feeling that engulfed him as he explored the streets of a place so steeped in history and romantic allure that he could feel the richness of it down to his very bones. He tells him about the day he spent wandering along the River Danube in Budapest, and how he was barely able to lower his camera lens as he fell in love with the exquisite city around him. He tells him about the raw natural beauty of the Karelian Isthmus and the tiny _dacha_ he rented on the rocky shores of Lake Ladoga. He tells him of St. Petersburg and the infamous white nights where the sun never set, and how sleeping felt like an absurdity when the phenomenon evoked a feeling so magical and palpable that anything seemed possible. He recounts it all with a kind of misty-eyed nostalgia, a breathless sort of longing that seizes his lungs, and revels in the way Louis quietly watches him through it all with rapt interest and his lips quirked in a manner that suggests he would be happy to listen to Harry ramble on for eternity.

“What about you,” Harry asks eventually, bringing them back around to the original topic of conversation, “how did you wind up in our fair city?”

Louis reaches across his face with his left hand to tug at his right ear lobe, his expression thoughtful albeit slightly pinched. “Moved to London ‘bout a year ago when I got sick of me mum’s prick of a boyfriend knocking me around,” he says casually, resignedly. His eyes are far away – swimming with the ghosts of his past that only he can see – and his voice is eerily void of emotion. Harry wants to ask questions more than anything. Louis reads like one of Harry’s favourite novels – something poetic and brilliant in its simplicity, quietly insightful and unassuming in its beauty – and Harry wants to know every chapter of his story, but he doesn’t want to push or prod. He refuses to be another person in Louis’ life who takes without permission, so he hides his wince, schools his facial features into a carefully neutral mask, and leans closer to listen. 

Louis exhales wetly, his voice quavering slightly with the emotion he’s trying so hard not to show when he continues speaking. “I didn’t really have anything when I got here, didn’t know but one or two people. Started out busking in tube stations until I got a job at a skanky little pub. Nothing much, just bussing tables as it were, but it was more consistent than freezing me arse off in the cold singing Oasis covers for a couple notes. Even got m’self a flat with one of the girls who worked at the pub with me, but then she found out she was pregnant and moved in with her boyfriend. Totally left me in the lurch and I couldn’t afford the rent on my own. So, I lost my flat and started sleeping on the streets or sometimes on my mate’s sofas if I could, but, like I said, I don’t really know too many people here,” he shrugs, eyes cast down to his lap where he’s idly picking at his cuticles. “I got a second job at a coffee shop recently, tryin’ to save up enough to get a place again. I spend most of my time at work, but I don’t mind really. It doesn’t leave much time to sleep that way, which means it isn’t as bad not having an actual place to do so. I’m hoping to be able to get a flat soon, but I’m sure you know how difficult it can be in London, even under the best of circumstances, and I’m not exactly an ideal tenant.” 

Without much thought, Harry reaches out and pushes away the stray lock of hair that has fallen over Louis’ brow, gently tucking it behind his ear. Louis’ eyes widen almost imperceptibly as they track the motion of his hand – two raw, uncut gemstones so multifaceted the light never seems to leave them. Harry lets his hand fall away, embarrassment creeping up on him.

“Oh—sorry,” he mutters sheepishly, flexing his fingers awkwardly at his side, still able to feel the ghost of Louis’ warmth beneath them.

“No, I—it’s alright,” Louis immediately assures him, reaching out to place his hand on Harry’s forearm. “I don’t mind.”

Harry reads between the lines, sincerely hoping he’s not grossly misinterpreting the situation as he brings his hand back up and fits it to Louis’ face – palm molded to his cheek, fingers stroking along the hinge of his jaw – and leans closer to press their foreheads together. They share each other’s breath, and Harry notes that the slightly more ragged pattern of Louis’ breathing is mirrored by the hitch in his own. The air has never tasted sweeter, the oxygen in it never having been quite as rich as that that occupies the space between their mouths – both their lips trembling in anticipation. It was Harry who conducted the prelude, but it’s Louis who brings them to the crescendo, closing the last bit of distance between them so their lips come together in a symphony of soft, tender brushes and breathy gasps so melodic and honey-sweet the sound makes Harry’s toes curl into the rug beneath his feet.

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis whimpers against the swollen plush of his lips. It’s so beautifully broken, so desperate, so honest, so _vulnerable_ , and Harry never wants to hear his name spoken in any other manner ever again.

“Spend the night with me,” he pleads, with both his words and his eyes. “We don’t have to do anything, but just—don’t leave. Please.”

Louis answers with a kiss – traces the tip of his tongue along the slightly parted seam of Harry’s lips and sinks his teeth into the lower one like he wants to leave his mark there – and it’s better than any words he could possibly have spoken.

Harry wraps his arms around Louis’ shoulders to draw him into a closer embrace when he notices how badly Louis is trembling.

“Lou?” He prompts concernedly. “You—you’re shaking.”

“I just feel so…cold. Always so cold. ‘M tired of it. Want to be warm, want to feel safe again.”

There’s a lump in Harry’s throat that’s too thick to swallow around, and it very well may be his heart.

“How about I make some tea and run you a bath?” He suggests, skimming the tip of his nose along Louis’ cheekbone. “Would that help?”

Louis curls further into him and tucks his face into the crook of Harry’s neck, a quiet exhale leaving his lips and sending chills down the length of Harry’s spine when he feels it against his skin. “A bath sounds lovely, actually.”

Unable to help himself, Harry guides Louis into another kiss. It’s even softer than the first one somehow, tender like the first blooms of spring, and if they keep this up Harry will be nothing more than a puddle on the floor. He can already feel himself melting under the sweetness of it – his body going pliant under the powerful rush of emotions and sinking into Louis’.

They continue to kiss as he reaches for both of Louis’ hands, lacing their fingers together and squeezing gently as he gets to his feet and pulls Louis up with him. Walking backwards, he slowly leads Louis down the hall to his room with their lips still connected. Once they cross over the threshold into his en suite, he carefully breaks the seal their mouths have jointly created, and presses a lingering kiss to Louis’ cheek in apology when he makes a protesting sound at the unwelcome interruption.

“Help yourself to whatever you need. There are clean towels over there,” Harry nods towards the rack mounted on the wall, “and I’ll go find something warm for you to wear once you’ve finished and leave it outside the door.” He brings Louis’ hands to his mouth and bends to kiss each one in turn, his eyes earnest and pleading as he looks up at him intently with his lips still pressed against his knuckles. “Please take as long as you want,” he implores with one last kiss, and then he releases his grip on Louis’ hands and slips out of the room to give him his privacy, pulling the door shut behind him with a quiet _snick_.

Emitting a wistful sigh, he sets to work trying to find his softest pair of joggers and his coziest jumper. The sound of running water carries through the wall as Louis fills the tub. It’s a sound that Harry has always found very soothing, being an avid bath-taker himself, and he briefly considers knocking and asking Louis if he would like a book to read whilst he soaks or perhaps some scented candles to really enhance his relaxation. Before he can make a decision one way or the other, he’s interrupted by the sound of Louis’ voice.

"Harry?" He calls from the other side of the door. "I can't get the taps to turn off."

Harry halts mid-rifle of his wardrobe with his fingers clutching an oversized lavender jumper. "Oh, erm, do you need help?" He offers, folding the jumper over the crook of his arm and getting to his feet.

"Please," comes Louis’ muffled reply.

Harry quickly selects a pair of well-loved heather grey joggers that are deliciously soft, remembering to grab pants as an afterthought before striding back across his room. He hesitates for a moment before he knocks and enters the attached bath on shaky legs, feeling a bit ridiculous with one hand clapped over his eyes. "I won't look," he promises, setting the clothes on the sink basin and kneeling down next to the claw-foot tub to mess with the ancient taps until the steady stream of water slows to a trickle and then finally cuts off altogether. 

"Harry?" Louis says tentatively, his voice this fragile, beautiful thing that Harry wants to pluck right out of the air and hold in his hands.

"Mm?" He turns towards Louis’ voice, his hand still covering his eyes. It’s the only response he's capable of, because his heart is beating a tattoo against the inside of his ribs with how hard it’s pounding.

"I want you to look at me," Louis breathes. 

One by one, Harry peels his fingers off his face and slowly blinks his eyes open. He’s immediately thankful that he’s already on the floor, because the sight before him would have brought him to his knees. Louis is leaning against the wall completely naked, his gaze so intense Harry feels like it could burn a hole right through him. There’s a raging inferno in his eyes, the blue of them smoky and molten like a bonfire flame. He’s darkness and light and madness and clarity all rolled into one by a beauty so blinding that Harry wants nothing more than to be consumed by it, to let it lick over his skin slowly, like a mass of smoldering embers, until he is swallowed up whole.

“Are you looking?” Louis asks thickly, the question belied by the fact that he hasn’t broken eye contact with Harry since he uncovered his eyes.

“Yes,” Harry whispers hoarsely, his voice nearly cracking on the single syllable.

“Do you see me?”

He doesn’t need Louis to elaborate or explain. He knows exactly what he’s asking, what he needs. To be looked upon by another and truly be seen is, without question, the most healing, transformative gift one can be offered. His and Louis’ bodies may be strangers to each other, but their eyes feel like old friends. He may not yet have felt Louis’ touch or mapped out his body with his hands, but he already knows him by heart.

He looks at him and he sees a fragile boy who has been broken down and hardened into steel by the crucible of his past, until all his soft, tender bits are hidden behind sharp edges and right angles. Harry wants to unveil the delicate beauty beneath the tough outer shell, to coax it into the light like a rosebud uncurling its silken petals and blossoming to full bloom. _Be soft_ , he wants to whisper, _don’t let the bitterness in the world tarnish your sweetness. Don’t let the darkness extinguish that halcyon light inside your eyes_.

“Yes, Lou,” he promises fervently. “ _God_ , I see you.”

“Stay with me?”

Gone is the playful tongue, the sarcastic humour, the quick-witted banter he hides behind and cloaks himself with like armour. With that one sentence, he has shed his skin, his only means of protection from the cruelties of the world, and this is Louis at his most vulnerable – stripped to the core, bare in every sense of the word, _raw_. Harry’s never seen anything more beautiful. The sight of it tugs at his heartstrings, and he knows he will do anything to protect this boy. He wants nothing more than to hold him and kiss him and whisper soft, sweet words into his ear about how lovely he is. He wants to give him every good thing the world has to offer and nothing less.

“Yes,” he says. _Always_ , he thinks. And then because he can’t help it, “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

“ _God_ ,” Louis gasps with a harsh exhale, “I want you to touch me.”

 _No_ , touching is decidedly not enough. Touching is shallow and fleeting in its physicality – only existing on the surface and unable to penetrate the superficial layers and reach the delicate matter that lies beneath. Harry needs more. Louis _deserves_ more. He shakes his head, his mind made up. “I want to _feel_ you,” he proposes instead.

Louis’ breath catches like a snag in silk or lace, the sound so fragile and beautiful. “Put your hands on me, Harry.”

Harry shuffles across the space between them on his knees until he’s right in front of Louis, close enough to touch. When he sees the pale, raised hatch marks that mar the delicate skin of Louis’ left forearm, he knows it’s going to take much more than words to repair what’s been broken here, but he will use up all the breath in his lungs trying to make Louis understand how precious he is.

He cringes when he thinks about the scars that can’t be seen – the emotional ones that come with marks like those, the ones that hide beneath layers of muscle and bone, invisible to the naked eye. He thinks about how thick the scar tissue on Louis’ heart must be, and tries not to count the tangible reminders of that pain on his skin. If only he could crawl inside Louis’ chest and kiss each jagged ridge until they faded into oblivion. He’ll have to settle for kissing the visible manifestations of those scabbed over wounds – the vestiges of this boy’s pain – and pray that the source of that hurt can be lessened and soothed by the brush of his lips over the tender skin. He’s not so naïve as to think he can erase it completely, especially not in one night. Scars, by nature, are permanent, but Harry also knows that with time scars can fade. So tonight he will be Louis’ tonic – strengthening him and invigorating him – and, eventually, given the chance, he’ll be his remedy.

He wraps his hand around Louis’ elbow, cradling his forearm and bending his head to tenderly press his lips to one of the faint, raised lines of scar tissue.

“It was a long time ago,” Louis murmurs quietly, his voice low but controlled like he’s distancing himself from the pain he’s referencing.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Harry assures him softly, moving to kiss the next mark.

“It’s alright,” Louis replies, watching Harry closely. “I think I want to.”

Harry closes his eyes and presses his lips to the lowest scar. It’s so painfully close to Louis’ pulse point that it makes Harry’s ribs ache from how his heart is throbbing against them. He looks up at Louis from beneath his wilted fringe, his hair wild and frizzy from the humidity, and says, “Only if you want to.”

“Do you want to know? I don’t want to tell you anything that will make you uncomfortable.”

“I want to know anything and everything you’re willing to tell me about yourself,” Harry admits earnestly, trying to shake his hair out of his eyes so Louis can see that he means it.

Louis takes a deep breath, air puffing out of his mouth and ruffling Harry’s curls. He offers him a small, soft smile and goes to fix them, carefully smoothing the unruly tendrils back from Harry’s face. The gesture is so tender, and he does it so easily that Harry burns with the intimacy of it and all it implies.

“It was a long time ago, yeah? When I was a teenager, I figured out pretty quickly that being gay was not an acceptable thing for me to be. At least not where I grew up. I spent a good part of my formative years suppressing every single feeling until, after a while, I stopped being able to feel altogether,” Louis shrugs, trailing off, and Harry aches for him.

“I was so numb to it all because that was the only way I could deal with everything. Then, one day, I found a way to feel, or rather an outlet for all the feelings that were blocked up inside me. I never did it with the intention of ending my life. I didn’t really want to hurt myself…it was just the only way I knew how to feel. The _pain_ was the only way I knew how to feel. It was an emotion that I understood, one I could make sense of when everything else was so chaotic, and it was something I could control. I curled in on myself and built up walls so high no one could reach me, and that was what I needed at the time. That way the only one with the power to hurt me was myself. Fuck, I still feel that emptiness sometimes, y’know? Like I could just disappear. I’m so fucking sick of feeling like that.”

“Tell me what you need, tell me what I can do to help. I’ll do anything, Lou. I swear I will.” Perhaps Harry should be embarrassed of how desperate he sounds, of how he is literally on his knees begging, but he feels nothing but the ache brought on by Louis’ words and the incessant, all-consuming need to soothe it.

“Fill me,” Louis says, so softly that Harry almost misses it.

“You want me to—”

“Yeah. Please?”

Harry looks up at him as he presses a single kiss to Louis’ hipbone, his lashes fluttering against the bare skin of his stomach. When their eyes catch and Louis’ lip trembles into a hopeful smile, Harry feels like he is kneeling before the physical embodiment of everything he loves in the world. If beauty had a face, it would undoubtedly be Louis’. He looks like something that entire universes had to conspire to create, there’s simply no other explanation for the existence of such pure beauty. 

If only he could see how he looked to Harry, if only he could view himself with eyes not tainted by societal cataracts, he would know. He’s a boy on the verge of spilling over, his compact frame full to the brim like a raging river pushing against the confines of a dam, and Harry wants nothing more than to be standing in his path when the flood gates open and he breaks free. He wishes more than anything he could just reach out, just stroke his fingers across the metaphorical place where Louis’ knuckles have gone pale and bloodless from clutching so tightly to this belief that he’s somehow not enough, and whisper, “ _let go_.” 

It physically pains him to step away from Louis, even briefly. Their bodies have not yet intertwined, but every touch, every word spoken between them since they met acts as a tether binding them to one another, and Harry feels those cords grow taut around his heart where they originate when he puts too much space between them. With tremendous effort and noticeable reluctance, he rises to his feet and opens the cupboard above the sink. He grabs a bath bomb from one of the glass apothecary jars he uses to store them and drops it in the tub. The water turns a lovely pale lilac colour as it dissolves, petals floating to the surface as the soothing scent of lavender, honey, and rose fills the slightly humid air of the room. 

He turns back around and blushes as his fingers hover over the shelf containing lube and a box of condoms, but he swallows down his nerves long enough to grab what they need and set it on the tile floor next to the tub.

Wanting to preserve the sanctity of the moment as long as possible, he takes his time stripping off his clothes, watching Louis watch him as he does. That blue fire in Louis’ eyes burns brighter with each newly exposed expanse of Harry’s skin. The intensity of it awakens some unstoppable force, some intrinsic need deep inside Harry, and the urge to feel Louis is as vital as the air in his lungs and the blood in his veins.

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis whispers when Harry finally removes the last of his clothing, effectively erasing any residual inhibition that may have been lingering between them.

He stands before him bare like an offering, ready to sacrifice his body for Louis’ pleasure. Logically, he knows that sex is predicated on balance, that there should be give and take from both participants in order to reach the peak of satisfaction, but Harry can’t find it within him to care about his own needs. He intends to worship Louis like he deserves to be worshipped – to give and give and give until the font of his benevolence has run completely dry. Then, and only then, will he allow himself to accept anything in return.

His thoughts are interrupted in the most beautiful way – by Louis reaching out to thumb over his hip bone and run his knuckles down the length of Harry’s torso. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful,” he marvels, the look in his eyes nothing short of reverent.

He’s so painfully sincere that it’s impossible for Harry not to believe him. As a lover of the arts, he’s spent much of his life appreciating beauty in its many forms, but he has never given much thought to his own appearance. Objectively, he’s aware of the fact that he is considered attractive by societal standards, but it’s always been an abstract concept to him. Unlike his gift for music or photography, his apparent beauty is not something he’s worked towards or earned, it simply exists, and he has a hard time accepting praise when he feels he’s done nothing to merit it. His facial features are arranged in such a way that makes him visually appealing to others, but he has never chosen to play into that or let it define him. In this moment, however, with Louis looking at him like he is, Harry truly _feels_ beautiful, and, for the first time, he finds he doesn’t mind the attention. It’s a foreign feeling, one that will take some getting used to, but it’s not unwelcome. It’s also clear from the way Louis is looking at him that when he says Harry is beautiful he’s referring to more than just a surface level beauty, and maybe that’s why Harry is able to believe him so easily. He feels choked up and wrung out under the gravity of what he’s feeling, and finds himself floundering for words to convey the depth and strength of it. Ultimately, he decides that none such words exist. “C’mere,” he croons, reaching out for Louis and guiding him carefully along as he steps over the lip of the tub.

He sinks down into the water, leaning back and opening his legs in invitation for Louis to slot himself between them. Louis follows him like he’s been doing it his whole life, turning his back to Harry and settling down against his chest. Harry wraps his arms around him, his lips at Louis’ ear. “Let me kiss you for a bit, yeah?”

Louis consents with a nod, craning his neck to the side to expose more of himself to Harry’s greedy mouth. Harry will gladly kiss every single inch of his skin if given the chance, but for now he narrows the scope of his focus to Louis’ neck and shoulders, simultaneously trailing his fingers along an invisible line that stretches from Louis’ sternum to his navel. Louis shudders under the sensation of it, a quiet moan slipping from his lips as he trembles in Harry’s arms. The reaction only makes Harry hungrier – desperate to incite the same response over and over until Louis completely shakes apart for him.

“Harry, I— _please_ , I need you inside me,” Louis rasps out, and now it’s Harry who feels like he’s coming undone. He could dissolve under the potency of those words and the raw urgency they’re expressed with.

From what he has learned of Louis in the last few hours, he’s come to the conclusion that he is fiercely independent and hardly seems like the type to admit vulnerability, yet here he is telling Harry he _needs_ him. If feelings were fuel, Harry could live off this particular one forever.

“Turn around for me, Lou,” he coaxes gently, his hand a stabilising weight on Louis’ waist to support him as he complies – moving to face Harry and straddle his lap.

Once Harry has thoroughly coated his fingers with lube, he reaches behind Louis’ back to touch his most intimate space, slipping his fingers between his cheeks and stroking him lovingly until Louis’ chest is heaving and his entire body is trembling from Harry’s ministrations.

For Harry, it’s never felt like this before. The elements of sex that are inconsequential with anyone else feel poetic and momentous with Louis. Harry doesn’t just finger him open, he carves out a space inside Louis’ body for his own to exist, and that’s just— _profound_. It’s obvious that Louis has performed a similar action on Harry’s heart. He’s whittled his way in and now there’s a void that bears his name, and Harry can only hope that Louis intends to permanently fill it, to crawl into that space and stay there.

With their foreheads pressed together, Harry grips Louis’ hip to hold him steady – the bath water lapping softly at his thighs – and kisses over his ribs, murmuring words of praise into his damp skin as he pumps his fingers in and out. Words like _beautiful_ and _lovely_ and _perfect_ and _strong_. He hopes Louis can hear every one of them. Maybe if he concentrates hard enough they will be absorbed through Louis’ skin, melt into his blood stream, and travel back to his heart where he hopes they will make their home.

Louis is emitting these breathy little moans that are slowly driving Harry to the point of ruin, and his eyes are hidden behind the veil of his lids, but when Harry’s fingers brush against that sweet spot deep inside of him, they fly open and burn into Harry’s with that now familiar fire – a fire that mirrors the one Harry feels deep down in his bones when Louis touches his skin or whispers his name. His mouth goes slack and his body contorts, his back arching gorgeously.

He’s so fiercely beautiful like this that he literally takes Harry’s breath away. He’s the bright white starlight and swirling galaxies that make up the cosmos. He’s the mesmerising blend of milky blue melting into hazy green of the aurora borealis. He’s the dappled pools of golden light that serve as the sun’s parting gift to earth before it sinks into the horizon and bids farewell to another day. He’s the pale lavender that paints the sky after the moon wanes, just before the sun returns to reign over her kingdom. He’s an entire universe hidden within the fleshy confines of a body, a body that feels so fragile and soft beneath Harry’s fingertips, but is also strong enough to contain all that blinding, ethereal light and vivid colour.

Addicted to the visual, Harry crooks his fingers again and again until every other breath that falls from Louis’ lips is a moan and he’s chanting Harry’s name like a prayer.

“I’m ready,” he gasps. “Fuck, Harry, _please_.”

Harry obliges, removing his fingers with care and letting Louis roll the condom onto his length. He groans at the sensation of Louis’ hand on him, having been so focused on Louis’ pleasure that he spared no thought for his own – just as he intended. They kiss and clutch at each other feverishly, their linked hands then coming to rest atop Louis’ thighs as he goes to sink down.

When their bodies join, it’s quiet and perfect like a soft dusting of snow under which the whole world seems to go silent – because it’s more than just the melding of two bodies, it’s the merging of two souls. It’s a collision of two hearts, and it’s undeniably cataclysmic, but there’s no explosion. Instead, they melt – melt into one being with a single focus: to love and be loved in return.

When Louis’ body is completely flush with his, Harry brings the other boy’s hand up to his chest, places it over his heart, and holds it there firmly with both of his own. “ _Stay_ ,” he whispers meaningfully, and hopes Louis knows what he’s asking.

They remain like that for a while, with Louis feeling Harry’s heart beat for him beneath his palm, and Harry able to feel Louis’ heartbeat from the inside out where he’s completely surrounded by it. He immerses himself in the feeling, loses himself in it until he’s drifting, weightless, and lets his heart float away from his body to a higher plane of existence. Eventually, however, they can’t contain themselves any longer, and their hands start to wander as Louis begins rocking back and forth to set a rhythm.

The blunt ridges of his fingernails dig into Harry’s shoulders like an anchor catching in the silt of the ocean floor, or the roots of a tree tunneling their way into the earth. Harry wants nothing more than to be that for him – his anchor, his roots, the grounding force that tethers him here in this moment. He clutches Louis’ hip tightly, his long fingers curling around the sharp jut of bone there, and places his other hand flat against Louis’ belly so his palm is covering the expanse of warm skin. He thrusts up at the same time as he applies pressure with his hand, holding Louis still in his embrace. “You feel that, Lou? _Feel me?_ ”

Louis whimpers and drops his forehead to Harry’s shoulder, his thighs trembling uncontrollably as he gives a weak nod in acknowledgement of Harry’s question.

Harry turns his head to kiss the hollow space just beneath Louis’ ear, tucking his words into the tender skin there. “You never have to feel empty again,” he promises. “I won’t let you. Never have to feel like you’re going to disappear. I’m right here, Lou. I’ve got you, and I’m not letting go.”

Louis lets out a broken noise, grinding down hard and clenching around Harry where he’s buried so deep inside of him. “Good,” he pants, his chest heaving wildly, “Don’t want you to.”

“Not gonna,” Harry vows, looking right into Louis’ eyes as he shakes his head. “Gonna hold you right here as long as you want.”

“Harry, I— _thank you_.”

“Shh, it’s okay.”

It doesn’t feel like the way you would fuck a stranger you met in a bar or at the club. It doesn’t feel like anything you would do with a stranger period. It feels intimate, like making love. They touch each other like lovers, like soul mates even. Everything about the way their bodies orbit and intertwine feels like it was written in the stars long before they even knew of the other’s existence. Destiny. Fate. Kismet. Providence. They’re words Harry has never had cause to ponder before, but now they weigh heavy on his heart and resound in his mind like the sweetest melody. He’s certain that what he’s found here with Louis is inescapable, nothing short of divine.

“So beautiful,” he whispers, kissing feverishly across Louis’ collarbones. “You’re safe here. Come apart for me, Lou. I want to see you.”

Louis’ hands latch onto Harry’s face in a vice grip, pulling him up until he can press their foreheads together. They’re practically going cross-eyed with the effort of maintaining eye contact as they pant harshly into each other’s open mouths, but it’s abundantly clear that neither of them want to so much as blink lest they risk missing a moment of this. Louis tilts Harry’s head to the side, rubbing their noses against each other and letting out a sound that’s somewhere between a sigh and a sob.

Harry feels his own brows drawing closer together, his face scrunching up with the effort of holding back a feeling that’s quickly growing too big for his body to contain. It pushes at the spaces between his ribs and claws at his heart like a caged beast begging to be set free, but Harry doesn’t let it out – not yet – unsure of what will happen if he does.

_I think I could love you._

It’s the last thought in his head before Louis comes with a sob and drags Harry right over the edge with him.

*

When they come back to themselves, Harry drains the water in the tub – it having long since gone lukewarm – and turns on the shower head, adjusting the temperature until it’s as hot as he can physically stand it. He pulls Louis under the spray with him and carefully washes his body with painstaking, single-minded focus. Once he’s clean, Harry retraces the path his hands just traveled, this time replacing the flannel with his lips, until he’s memorised how every single inch of Louis feels and tastes beneath them.

He falls to his knees and brings Louis off a second time with his mouth, then gets to his feet and kisses him like it’s the only thing he knows how to do. He kisses him like his life depends on it, like doing so is more important than the oxygen his lungs are straining for, because in that moment it is. He finds his own release at Louis’ hands. Their mouths remain connected as Louis works him through it, so that each one of Harry’s whimpers is swallowed by his lover and given back to him in the form of a kiss.

Louis then washes Harry’s body with the same reverent tenderness Harry showed him. They dry off and stumble out of the bathroom together where they fall into Harry’s bed, not bothering to get dressed first. They snuggle under the duvet and use each other’s bodies for warmth – their legs tangled and their fingers intertwined on the mattress between them where they lay face to face.

"Louis?" Harry whispers after a while.

Louis is absently playing with Harry’s fingers – twisting his rings and tracing the lines on his palm until they run into the veins of his wrist. "Hm?" He answers, not looking up, but raising his brows to show he’s listening. 

"What's your last name?" Harry asks, it seems absurd that he doesn’t know when he knows much more intimate things about Louis, such as what it feels like to be inside him. He wants to know everything about him, though, from the most basic of facts to the complex inner workings of his heart.

Louis smiles at the question, looking up at Harry to grace him with the beauty of it. "Tomlinson,” he murmurs softly. “You?"

"Styles."

Louis straight up laughs. "You can't be serious."

"What?" Harry asks confusedly, a reluctant smile painting his face because he can’t keep it at bay when Louis sounds so lovely and carefree.

" _Harry Styles?_ That sounds like a bloody rock star or summat."

"Well,” Harry allows with a shrug, “I don’t think I’ll ever be as much a rock star as I will a composer, but I did almost audition for the X-Factor when I was sixteen."

"Get the fuck out!” Louis exclaims in disbelief. “What year was this?"

"Well let's see, Lou, it's currently 2016 and I'm twenty-two so..." Harry drawls cheekily, unable to resist the opportunity to tease.

"Shut it, Curly,” Louis retorts, playfully knocking his head into Harry’s shoulder. “I failed the maths portion of my A-levels spectacularly."

"It was 2010," Harry laughs as Louis continues to nudge at him.

Louis pulls back abruptly, his eyes wide and his expression serious. "In Manchester?"

Harry furrows his brow in confusion. "Erm, yes. How did you—”

"I was supposed to be there as well."

The words hang there in the air for a moment as they both consider the implications of them.

"What happened?" Harry asks once he finds his voice.

"One of my sisters was running a fever so the nursery school wouldn't take her and mum had to work,” Louis shrugs and brings Harry’s hand up to his mouth to kiss along his knuckles. “What about you? Why didn't you go?"

"Chickened out,” Harry admits with a sheepish tilt to his mouth. He’s never fancied himself a quitter, has never been the type to give up easily. As such, this particular memory is not one of his proudest moments. “My mate who was supposed to go with me bailed and I got cold feet." 

Louis’ eyes fill with a wistful kind of contemplation like he’s imagining an alternate universe where fate brought the two of them together under different circumstances. "Wonder what would have happened if we both had gone," he muses aloud, lending his voice to the very thought Harry had himself been pondering. 

"Think we would have met?" Harry asks dreamily, finding himself swept up in the fantasy they’ve created. It’s certainly an intriguing thought, and there’s a definite romance to the notion that even though they missed out on the chance of meeting then, they somehow found each other anyway.

"Oh, definitely,” Louis nods like he’s on the same page. “Our love was written in the stars, Curly."

"Yeah?” Harry jests, a smile splitting his face. “You think we would have fallen in love?" His tone is playful, but the question is a serious one. One he legitimately wants to know the answer to.

"Are you kidding me?” Louis scoffs, cupping Harry’s cheek with one hand and pushing the other back into his hair. “Between those curls and that bloody dimple of yours, I wouldn't have stood a chance." He punctuates the statement by gently poking the aforementioned dimple with his finger, leaning forward to kiss Harry when it deepens under his touch.

"Think we still can?" Harry asks on an exhale against Louis’ lips when they break apart.

"We'd be stupid not to. Fate and all that."

"Yeah? You gonna fall in love with me, Lou?" 

"Try and stop me, Styles. I’m already halfway there."

 _Yeah_ , Harry thinks as he smiles to himself. _Me too_. 

Maybe it’s too early to be having such thoughts – let alone expressing them – but Harry doesn’t know how to love in moderation. In a world filled with shades of grey, he loves in black and white. It isn’t in his nature to hold back or shrink his feelings down to a size that will fit within the rigid confines of what society deems normal. As far as he is concerned, love is meant to be visceral, somatic, _rapturous_ , and it shouldn’t be diminished by something as trivial as convention or as oppressive as fear. There’s a difference, he thinks, between giving someone your heart and letting them take it, and when he decides to truly give his heart to someone, he does so fully and without regret. 

He falls asleep in Louis’ arms thinking that maybe he has finally found someone whose heart is made up of the same substance as his own. 

* 

The next morning, Harry wakes up to a sight so surreal he’s convinced he must be dreaming. Louis is lying next to him and he looks so beautiful in Harry’s bed – sleep softened and messy – his limbs spread out haphazardly like for the first time he’s not trying to make himself smaller so as to take up as little space as possible in the world. Where before he was sunlight seeping into a darkened room from between the slats of the blinds – his brilliance and beauty having been reduced to a quiet, trickling thing – now the curtains have been pushed aside and the window wrenched wide open, sunlight pouring in and illuminating every corner and crevice. He’s incandescent, as he should be, for his beauty was not intended to be stifled. It was meant to be basked in fully. He was made to live in the light. 

Harry reaches out to touch him, gently stroking the back of his hand across his cheek. He doesn’t want to wake him, doesn’t want to disturb the blissful look on his sleep-slackened face, but he just needs a tangible reminder to confirm his existence. Despite his best intentions, he gets a little carried away – physically unable to keep his hands to himself as far as Louis’ concerned – and starts kissing his bare shoulder. 

Louis rouses with a soft, sleepy, “ _mmm_ ,” pushing into the contact as he tries to bury his smile into the pillow. Harry sees it anyway, and the beauty of it is enough to have a tingling sense of warmth radiating out from the centre of his chest. 

“This is a lovely way to wake up,” Louis muses as Harry crawls on top of him and begins kissing down his back. 

“Yeah?” Harry responds breathlessly, tracing the dimples at the bottom of his spine with his tongue. 

“Mhmm,” Louis nods in affirmation, reaching back with one hand to cup the nape of Harry’s neck and thread his fingers through the curls there. “Would be better if I could see your face, though.” 

He starts wiggling until Harry gives in and sits back enough for Louis to be able to roll over. He looks up at him with an adoring smile – his hair fanned out over the pillowcase in a makeshift halo, and Harry is hard-pressed to come up with a visual that would be a more fitting representation of him. 

“There you are,” Louis breathes out in a full-bodied sigh, his grin still splitting his face in the most angelic way. “Good morning, beautiful.” 

Harry’s heart is positively bursting out of his chest as he dons an equally broad smile and whispers a giddy, breathless, “ ‘morning, Lou,” in return. 

They spend the entire morning in bed talking about everything and nothing at all – both experiencing that unparalleled excitement that comes at the start of something new – and kissing lazily during the natural lulls in conversation. Eventually, Harry drags Louis into the kitchen and makes him the cup of tea he had promised him the night before. 

Louis stays over that night too, and then - much to Harry's delight - just, kind of, never leaves... 

Days go by and still he remains, his continued presence a challenge to the notion that he seems too good to be true. Days turn to weeks then months and Harry finds that the sentiment he felt the first night they spent together – that sobering, staggering thought of _I think I could love you_ grows from a shallowly planted seed into a sapling. It then becomes a mess of butterflies and the giddy realisation of _I think I do love you_ , and eventually matures into the solid foundation and ironclad certainty of _I love you_. 

* 

**Eighteen Months Later**

Harry’s fingers dance absently across the keys of his piano - a gorgeous, vintage Steinway upright given to him by his beloved grandfather. It seems fitting that it should be a part of this moment he’s planned when it was another gift from his grandfather that brought Louis into his life in the first place. It’s been eighteen blissful months since that fateful day when he discovered Louis in the back of his car and brought him home, and it seems like he finds new ways to fall in love with him with each passing day. 

Harry discovered that there was a common theme in music, poetry, and literature when it came to describing love. It was often noted that one’s lover stole their heart or took their breath away, and Louis definitely did those things for him, but to Harry it wasn’t about that. It was about what he gained through love rather than what he lost, and in the relatively short time they had spent together, Louis had already given him so much more than he had ever taken away.

Harry is just about to finish his first year of a two year programme at the Royal College of Music where, upon completion, he will receive his MComp or Masters of Composition. His final showcase for the term is quickly approaching, the event offering him the perfect excuse for what he has planned for Louis this afternoon. 

Speaking of Louis, he is about to finish up his first year of university himself. He decided he wanted to pursue a degree in psychology so that one day he might be able to help teens who are dealing with the same issues he had himself struggled with when he was younger. Harry is so incredibly proud of him he could burst. He also started volunteering with a London based charity organisation called _Safe House_ that offers housing to homeless LGBT youths as well as counseling and job-placement services. He spends every Saturday there, and Harry tags along whenever he has a break from the demands of his rigorous course load and is able to do so, always thrilled at the chance to see Louis interacting with the kids he helps. 

That’s where Louis is now, he’s due back any minute, and Harry already feels his hands trembling with nerves for what’s to come. It’s the good kind of nerves, though, the kind that sends adrenaline coursing through your veins, making you feel alive and reminding you that you have something that’s important enough to warrant the fear of losing it. 

The unmistakable sound of a key turning the lock to the front door of their flat jars Harry from his musings and sends his heart into overdrive. 

“Haz, you home?” Louis calls out from the foyer. 

Harry swallows thickly and takes a deep breath to compose himself before responding, “In here, Lou.” He’s immensely pleased when his voice comes out sounding steady and not suspicious in the slightest. 

Louis appears in the doorway of their bedroom clad in a purple t-shirt with the _Safe House_ logo embroidered over his heart, the short sleeves cuffed to show off the swell of his biceps. He recently stopped hiding his scars, claiming he had reached a point in his life where he had accepted that they are a part of him, much like his past, but they no longer define him or hold power over him. He credited Harry’s love and support for helping him come to that revelation, and it was one of the best compliments Harry had ever received. Pride welled up inside him every time he so much as thought about it. 

“Hey, baby,” Louis greets softly, beaming at Harry as he crosses the room and comes to stand behind him. “Watcha doing?” He leans down to wrap his arms around Harry’s shoulders, his hands slipping beneath the collar of his shirt where it’s unbuttoned down to his sternum. They find their way to his heart like they always seem to do, and he presses one of his palms there to feel it beat for him as he tenderly kisses along Harry’s neck to his jaw line. 

A quiet, breathy moan slips from Harry’s lips at the feel of Louis’ mouth on him, and he wonders if he’ll ever get used to this. He wonders how much time has to pass before he develops some form of immunity to the curve of Louis’ waist or the slow sweep of his lashes or the bow of his lips, wonders how thick his skin has to get before it’s impossible for Louis to crawl under it so easily. He hopes he never finds out. He’s content to be enraptured with Louis and the effect he has on him from here to eternity. No amount of time with him seems long enough for Harry to be able to love him the way he wants to, but he’ll gladly spend forever trying to do just that. The thought brings him back to the moment and the matter at hand. 

He tilts his head back against Louis’ chest, seeking out the blue of his eyes, and giggles when Louis leans down to kiss his nose, and then his lips. 

“Can I play you the piece I’m working on for my Recital Accompaniment course?” Harry rushes out once they break apart, needing to voice the question before he gets caught up in the moment and loses his momentum. There will be plenty of time for losing themselves to one another once he goes through with his plans. 

“ ‘Course, love,” Louis replies easily, disentangling himself to sit next to Harry on the piano bench. “You know how much I love to hear you play.” 

Harry arches his neck from side to side, flexing his fingers over the keys, and then, with one last meaningful glance at Louis, he begins to play. The music flows through him as easily as it always has as his deft fingers expertly coax the opening notes of the song into existence. Those dreamy, romantic notes that swell and fill the room do not belong to the piece Harry is working on for his Recital Accompaniment course, but rather a song that has long reminded him of the beautiful boy sat next to him. Louis lets out a tiny, surprised gasp when Harry’s voice accompanies the melody as he begins to sing the lyrics. 

_I watched you sleeping quietly in my bed_

_You don't know this now but_

_There're some things that need to be said_

_And it's all that I can hear_

_It's more than I can bear_

When it comes time to sing the chorus, Harry turns his head towards Louis and purposefully maintains eye contact as his fingers continue to play. 

_What if I fall and hurt myself_

_Would you know how to fix me?_

_What if I went and lost myself_

_Would you know where to find me?_

_If I forgot who I am_

_Would you please remind me?_

_Oh, cause without you things go hazy_

The tears in his own eyes are mirrored in the clear, radiant blue of Louis’ as he seems to realise that this is different than all the other times Harry has played for him. His hand finds its way to Harry’s thigh and rests there for the duration of the performance – an anchor for Harry to focus on. The final note resounds in the air long after Harry’s fingers leave the keys, as if the music itself is trying to prolong the moment so that the two of them can fully appreciate the significance of it. 

Harry slips his hand into the front pocket of his trousers and pulls out a simple silver band. “Stay with me,” he proposes, looking intently into Louis’ eyes as he holds up the ring. It’s an echo of the plea Louis made when Harry had brought the shivering, lost boy he had found living in his car back to his flat all those months ago. It’s a reminder of how far they’ve come, and a nod to a future where neither of them will ever have to feel alone. 

“Always,” Louis answers earnestly, pressing his forehead against Harry’s as Harry slides the ring onto his finger. It’s a promise, Harry knows, and like a prelude to their vows, they seal it with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> I know I just posted a story a week ago, but I've been working on this one for a little over a month now, and after I finished it today I just couldn't wait any longer :P
> 
> If you are following my work in progress fic, please know that the next chapter will be up soon, I promise!
> 
> I feel like this is quite different from my other fics, but I am immensely proud of this story and it would mean a lot to me to hear your thoughts if this is something you enjoyed reading.
> 
> You can also reblog the [tumblr post](https://beau-soleil-louis.tumblr.com/post/179603365326/breathe-me-by-onlyangel28-theres-a-rustling) if you feel so inclined. Xx


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